


Resignation

by ValueTurtle



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:04:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValueTurtle/pseuds/ValueTurtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not exactly two weeks' notice, but, under the circumstances, the Doctor thinks Torchwood will probably be able to cope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resignation

It's eight months after his arrival in Pete's World, a Monday morning, when Rose slams open his office door and says: 'Fuck it. I quit.'   
  
    
  
He grins, because he does, and because he's been trying to convince her to leave Torchwood and go travelling with him for about seven and a half of the eight months he's been here. He grins, also, because she's magnificent in all her pissed off glory. Her hair is struggling to free itself from the practical braid, curling around her jaw and forehead. Her cheeks are slightly pink from anger. And he'd be damned if the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes heavily wasn't doing it for him, too.   
  
    
  
'Yeah,' he agrees, nodding his head. 'Yeah.  _Fuck_ yes. Let's quit.'   
  
    
  
Rose's eyes go wide, the impact of what they're about to do dawning on her, but a fraction of a second later she's beaming at him, holding out her hand and waggling her fingers. It's an invitation, and he gladly accepts it, leaping past his desk to grab her hand and squeeze it tightly. They run out the door and down the hallway as if their lives depend on it, and maybe they do, really. All the Doctor knows is that nothing has made him feel more mortal - not even discovering his solitary heart - than waking up of a morning and knowing he has to go back to work. And Rose is laughing, a loud, bright thing he hasn't heard in  _months_ , and her eyes flash wonderfully when she looks up at him.   
  
    
  
This is it, he realises.  _This_  is the start of their lives together. Not a windy beach. Not the slow trickle of days passing, sequentially, layering one after the other until they're both smothered by time. This is excitement and hearts racing — hers and his — and that weightless, giddy, I-have-no-idea-what-I'm-doing feeling that he craves.   
  
    
  
The Doctor stops, mid-stride. He turns Rose around and pulls her to him, pulls her into a huge, bone-cracking hug that lifts her in the air; she kicks her legs out and giggles into his neck, holding on to him for all that she's worth. Right now, it doesn't matter what  _finally_ convinced her that she wasn't made for this stuffy job, with the meetings with pay roll on Thursday afternoons, or the uncomfortable blouses her mum buys her. It doesn't matter that they still have to go Pete's office and tell him the news, and will have weeks of debriefing ahead of them. All that matters is that she's  _happy_.   
  
    
  
There's a pause, when he lets her down. Rose is breathless and flushed with excitement. His cheeks are going to ache later, he just knows it, from how widely he's smiling.   
  
    
  
Then, suddenly, her hand is buried in the fabric of his shirt and she's pulling his mouth down on to hers. It's a wet, lip-smashing kiss and they're standing in the middle of the corridor, with Laura from accounting photocopying just around the corner. He returns the kiss, obviously, because he's had seven and a quarter months of kissing Rose Tyler to know that he should; an arm wraps around her, bringing her so close he can feel the buttons of her shirt where they press against his chest, and his hand tangles in her hair, enough for her to moan into his mouth the way he likes.   
  
    
  
When they break for air, she doesn't let him go; she grabs the handle to the nearest door — Henry Etherington's office — and drags him in after her. It's luck, he thinks, that the legal department is on a two-day seminar, because the idea that Rose remembered that, when her hand was cupping him through his trousers, is, quite frankly, ludicrous. He's hard, and really very interested in whatever plans she has, but feels he should mention the risks involved in shagging on a desk at Torchwood.   
  
    
  
'Uh,' he manages to get out before she's kissing him again.   
  
    
  
She does it  _so_ thoroughly, as if she has a map or a set of instructions letting her know that now,  _now_  she should suck his lower lip and oh, right _there_  is a fantastic place for her tongue. The Doctor's concerns drop away, along with his jacket, and then he surrenders: he rucks up her shirt, pulling it out of the waistband of her skirt and up, high enough that there's all this  _skin_ , freshly revealed, that he's allowed to touch and taste. He lowers his mouth to her nipple and sucks it through the material of her bra, feeling it harden under his tongue as she gasps. Her hands still where they were clawing at his belt, drifting, now to his head, to encourage him with the scrape of fingernails at the back of his neck. He brushes his thumb over her other nipple, and that's it - she's at his mercy, completely, her eyes squeezed shut and her breath short.   
  
    
  
Without her interference, he can unbutton his trousers, slip his belt undone. The sound of the zip drawing down makes her eyes fly open, and then she explodes into action again, walking backwards until she's sitting on the edge of Henry's desk. The Doctor's single heart pounds painfully at the sight of her: lips red and lipstick smeared, her shirt pushed up; the damp patch on her bra cup from his mouth. Rose curls her finger at him, and he's helpless to resist; he stumbles forward to stand between her legs and kisses her. His hands glide under her skirt — he groans at the feel of her thighs, soft and smooth — and his fingers hook around the waistband of her knickers, drawing them down until they pool at her feet. Rose still has her shoes on, the slightly fancy heels she wears when there's a meeting, but she's pushed his pants down, too, and there's no stopping this now.   
  
    
  
Her legs wrap around him, ankles locked just above his arse, and it's all he can do not to thrust into her, right there. His cock is at her entrance, and she's trembling with tension, but he pauses, snaking a hand between them to make sure the angle is right, and to check if she's ready — of course she is, wet and slick on his fingers. The look Rose gives him is half-amused, half-irritated that he should slow things down this much.   
  
    
  
The Doctor shrugs in apology and nips at her neck. 'I love you,' he tells her, because he's had seven months to make this a ritual, and it doesn't matter if they're having slow, Sunday morning sex or a quick shag on a colleague's desk: he's going to say it every time.   
  
    
  
'I love you, too,' she says seriously. Then her heels dig into his back and she says, 'Now. Fuck me.'   
  
    
  
Well, her wish  _is_  his command.   
  
    
  
The Doctor presses forward, entering her in one stroke, and she curses and he says her name. Seven months is not enough time, not nearly enough time, to get used to this. Not enough time to get used to the way Rose's mouth goes slack when he's all the way inside her; not enough time to get used to the shaky breath she releases, and the smile that lights her face, the one that lets him know she still can't believe he's here, he's  _hers_. To his immense embarrassment, he feels tears prick at his eyes and he lowers his head, hiding his expression under his fringe.   
  
    
  
The desk is a good height, but maybe not the best, so when he pulls out he shifts her around, bringing her closer to the edge and tilting her back, just a bit; the next thrust makes Rose let out a surprised gasp and he can't help but smirk. He remembers, then, that they're in the office: this isn't the time or place for indulging in experimentation. Grabbing a hold of her hip to keep her in place, the Doctor picks up speed. It's good, all of it — the feel of her, the taste of her sweat when he kisses her throat, the little stifled moans she makes and the way she tries to keep her eyes open because she knows he loves it when she does.   
  
    
  
There's noise, it's unavoidable: there's an in-out tray on the desk, and it's shaking terribly on every thrust. The pencils are bouncing in the — the — the pencil-holder-thing. But he thinks — hopes — it's quiet enough.   
  
    
  
At least, until he hears the dull murmur of conversation outside of the office.   
  
    
  
Rose hears it, too. She freezes, her thighs pressing tight around his hips, trapping him between her legs. For a breathless moment, two, they wait, ears straining. His cock twitches, and she sends him a disapproving look, one that nearly makes him laugh; she squeezes around him, and it's involuntary, the way he thrusts forward. Despite the fact there is at least two people standing right outside the door, Rose brings his hand down to her chest and quirks her eyebrow —  _I'm game if you are_ , it says. The Doctor mouths, “Oh, yes”, and gives her breast a gentle squeeze before he draws back enough to slam home; with one hand on the desk top, the wobbling is limited, the table nearly silent. Rose clenches again, and he slowly begins to fuck her in long, determined strokes, ones that make her pant and swear alternately, the words so soft even he can barely make them out.   
  
    
  
This new rhythm is intense, and he's close, closer than he was before. He doesn't know how long he can hold out, not with the threat of being caught hanging over him — he can feel the thrill off it burning a line all the way down to his cock. It's a kink he probably should have already figured out he'd have, but it's still a surprise, the way everything is enhanced with the fear and adrenaline. And if Rose doesn't come soon he's never going to hear the end of it. 'Fuck,' he whispers harshly in her ear, knowing how she loves it when he swears. 'Come, Rose. Please.'   
  
    
  
She doesn't reply — not that he thought she would — but suddenly he feels her hand around his shaft, brushing, teasing, then she's touching herself, fingers moving in fast circles over her clit. It's too much — he feels his climax approaching a split-second before it hits, and then he's there - it's breaking over him. The Doctor's still pumping into her even as his knees are fit to collapse, the pleasure so sharp it knocks the air out of his lungs. Distantly, he can hear Rose's muffled whimper and the relief he feels is almost as good as the orgasm itself.   
  
    
  
It doesn't last long. The door handle rattles loudly — thank  _fuck_  Rose locked it - and someone calls from the hallway: 'Is there someone in there?'   
  
    
  
It's Pete Tyler.   
  
    
  
'Shit!' Rose says under her breath. 'Oh shit, shit, shit!' Louder, she says, 'Yeah, it's just me and the Doctor, Mr Tyler.'   
  
    
  
The Doctor, as always, rolls his eyes at her professionalism even as she sits there, sticky and sweaty, with his cock against her inner thigh.   
  
    
  
'I think you should both see me in my office once you're... finished whatever it is you were doing.'   
  
    
  
It's a miracle, he thinks, that they're able to hold out until he's gone before they burst into laughter.   
  
    
  
Once they've recovered, he lifts himself off her body, pulling back enough to pick up his pants and trousers. There's a handkerchief in his pocket, clean and new with the letters “TD” monogrammed in the corner — a gift from Jackie Tyler — and he offers it to her. Rose wisely does not comment on its origins, but makes a face all the same as she cleans herself up. Together they put their clothing to rights: she does up his fly and belt; he slips her knickers back on and smooths down her shirt.   
  
    
  
'Good thing we're quitting,' he informs her, retrieving the two letters of resignation from his jacket pocket, the ones he'd typed up seven and a half months ago. 'After that performance, I don't think we'd be getting promoted any time soon.'


End file.
